


Diverted

by 221b_hound



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Explicit Consent, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, consensual restraint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 09:56:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1506260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is bored. But then shirtless John gives him an idea. One twenty minute shower later he is draped across John's lap, waiting to see what John is going to do today...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diverted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).



> It's been a fucking awful couple of days. But as our beloved Atlinmerrick says, when life gives you lemons, write fanfic. Better yet, write Johnlock porn. So I wrote this to cheer myself up. It's particularly filthy because I needed a LOT of cheering up.
> 
> This fic is gifted to Atlinmerrick. Just take it as read that all my rimming Johnlock porn is dedicated to Atlinmerrick, and you'll be correct.

Days between cases could be difficult, rather than merely tedious. Sherlock often filled the time with experiments that might either prove diverting, instructive or downright destructive. Some experiments, however, were rather more diverting than others.

For example.

One warm summer afternoon at Baker Street, John returned to the flat after checking the mail to be greeted by the sound of Sherlock throwing things into the sink in a fit of pique.

“So, still nothing from Lestrade?”

“Not since you went out three minutes ago,” came the snarled reply.

“Nothing in the mail either,” John informed him.

That garnered a snort of derision, as though the comment was so obvious as to have been a waste of oxygen to express, and inner ear vibration to receive.

“We could go see if Molly has…” John didn’t even get to finish the sentence before Sherlock was making rude noises.

“You could spend the afternoon in a snit again. That would help.”

Sherlock made a sound like water boiling over on the stove, all furious hisses.

“I’m going to watch the footy.”

“Ha!”

John ignored that, threw the latest bills on the table, kicked off his shoes and peeled off his shirt, which he tossed over the back of a chair.

Sherlock stopped doing what he was doing – which appeared to be emptying the contents of the cupboard under the sink into the actual sink, god only knew why – to regard John with some interest.

“It’s hot,” John explained. Sherlock’s expression seemed to agree. John just grinned, grabbed the remote, dropped onto the sofa and turned on the telly. He stretched back, hands folded behind his head (it showed off his pecs, which he knew full well, and Sherlock knew full well, so it wasn’t like anyone was being subtle here, neither in the showing off or the staring)…

…and then Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom.

Not quite the reaction John had hoped to engender, but it would mean at least five minutes of peace from the epic sulk, and John would take what he could get at this point.

John turned up the television and noted that the shower had been turned on full blast.

Five minutes later he noted vaguely the shower was still going full blast and prepared himself for the imminent reappearance of the sulk machine.

When the shower had been going for ten minutes, John’s grin grew wider and he relaxed, legs splayed a little, hands still tucked behind his head as he watched the game. He didn’t really give a toss about the game. But he did notice that ten minutes was stretching to fifteen, and his grin grew.

Sherlock, who hated wasting time on tedious tasks, habitually took five minutes to shower most days; up to ten on rare occasions. More than ten was indicative of specific preparations.

When twenty-five minutes was up and Sherlock finally reappeared wearing clean pyjama pants and T-shirt, both soft with wear and smelling pleasantly of cotton and fabric softener, John was, apparently, deeply engaged with the game. His legs were stretched in front of him, crossed at the ankles, his hands behind his head, his bare chest nicely displaying a sprinkling of golden blond hair across the skin and around dark nipples, leading down to a slightly soft belly over harder muscle, and the indent of his navel.

Heaving a great, dramatic sigh, Sherlock dropped onto the sofa beside John and then stretched out, as though John wasn’t already occupying half the space, to lay his shoulders on John’s lap. His head dropped on the other side, partially supported by John’s thigh.

“Bored,” he declared.

“Busy,” John replied.

Sherlock turned his head to regard the figures on the screen, chasing the ball. “Dull.”

“Not my problem.”

But John took one hand from behind his head and lowered it to rest on Sherlock’s T-shirt-covered stomach. His fingers flexed a little.

It was part of the game, this. Part of the foreplay, for John to pretend to not know exactly what Sherlock was about. Because the point was that Sherlock never knew precisely how John would respond. This could start in snogging and end in the bedroom. Often it did. And that was good. Better than good. Fucking marvellous. Especially after one of them had had a 20 minute shower.

And sometimes it was something else. Sherlock never knew when it would be the something else. He loved not knowing when it would be the something else, or what the something else would be.

Today, John was in the mood for something else.

“Stop wriggling,” admonished John.

Sherlock, who had not been wriggling so much as getting comfortable, stilled, and then wriggled.

“Pest,” said John, pressing a hand down on Sherlock’s sternum, “I’m watching the game.”

“I’m bored.”

John’s hand stayed on Sherlock’s sternum rather than moving down. Sherlock frowned. Considered.

“Find a book,” suggested John, “You left that one on the toxicology of fungi on the floor last night.”

With another great sigh, Sherlock lifted his torso and shifted till he was belly down on John’s lap. He stretched one long arm out to the book in question – he had indeed left it on the floor – and poked at it. “Nothing new there. Several errors, in fact. The author is an idiot.”

John’s hand was now resting on Sherlock’s backside, the palm curved around the curve of his arse, fingers pressing slightly into the underside, where curve met thigh.

Sherlock wriggled a little.

John gave Sherlock’s bottom a soft slap. “Stop that.”

Sherlock stopped that. John’s hand settled on his backside again, and began moving, a gentle pat.

Sherlock wasn’t really into spanking, and John knew that, but today a pat on the arse was not going to cut it. Obviously, John wasn’t really watching the football, but he was making a good pretence of it. It wasn’t entirely clear what Sherlock was supposed to do next. He wriggled a little as a test.

Another soft slap.

Sherlock wriggled again.

John hooked a finger into the band of Sherlock’s pyjamas, tugged them down to expose Sherlock’s arse, and gave a single, harder smack. Then he pressed his hand to the pinkening skin.

Sherlock froze for a moment, and then, breathing deeply, not so much wriggled as flexed, pushing his bum up against John’s warm hand.

“Bored, huh?” John asked.

“Yes.”

“Want something to distract you?”

“God, yes.”

“Hmm.”

Sherlock tried to turn his head to see what John was doing in the silence following the ‘Hmm’, but John buried one hand in Sherlock’s hair and stroked his scalp, perforce holding his head in place. But Sherlock heard sounds that indicated John was pooling spit in his hand, and spreading that saliva on his fingers.

Then he felt John’s fingers reach into the cleft of his backside and stroke against his entrance.

Sherlock arched into the touch, as John ran first one finger then two over the puckered skin, up and down, firm and smooth, but not breaching him.

Sherlock wriggled again, this time with less volition. He folded his arms under his chin and thrust his backside up again, encouraging John’s ministrations.

John’s hand left Sherlock’s scalp, ran down Sherlock’s neck and spine over the T-shirt, then settled firmly on the rise of one cheek and squeezed. The fingers of the other hand kept rubbing against his arsehole, sensitising already sensitive skin.

Then that hand settled on Sherlock’s other arse cheek and Sherlock gasped as John spread him, bent low and licked between his buttocks. Once. Twice. Then he stopped and kissed each spread cheek.

“That’s not really going to work, now, is it?” John asked, but he wasn’t expecting a reply, not if Sherlock was to judge by the way in which John let go of his arse, and slid his hands down either side of Sherlock’s thighs, pulling the pyjama pants down as he went. A little manoeuvring, and John pulled Sherlock’s pyjamas clean off and dropped them on the floor.

Then, unexpectedly, John picked up the Union Jack cushion and dropped that on the floor too, between his ankles.

“Tell me if this gets too uncomfortable,” said John, putting his hands around Sherlock’s thighs. He spread Sherlock’s legs and paused to run fingers over Sherlock’s balls. Sherlock gasped and thrust back against the touch.

“Not yet, baby.  Come on.” John tapped his shoulder and pushed. Momentarily puzzled, Sherlock followed the implied instruction, moving his arms to the floor, moving his torso with it.

John grasped Sherlock’s thighs and with easy strength lifted and moved them until Sherlock’s knees were either side of John’s shoulders, and Sherlock found himself inverted against John. His hands were on the floor, though the cushion gave him somewhere to rest his forearms, while his body stretched along John’s, bare belly to John’s stomach, abdomen to his chest, cock and balls just below John’s mouth. Sherlock’s bent legs were supported partly by John’s hands, partly by his shoulders.  The toes of Sherlock’s bare feet brushed against the wallpaper.

“Comfy?” John asked.

And it wasn’t bad, really. He wasn’t completely upside-down, so the blood wasn’t rushing to his head in an unpleasant way just yet. John had slumped down a little to provide more support along Sherlock’s draped body.

Sherlock could feel John’s breath hot against his balls, his arse, and his heart started to bump faster. Such an exposed position. So helpless.

So perfect.

“Yes,” he answered at last.

John’s hands stroked Sherlock’s inner thighs, then moved up, to spread Sherlock’s arse cheeks again. John’s wrists and forearms pushed against his thighs, keeping them spread, his elbows tucked into the muscle above Sherlock’s knees, restricting his movement.

And then John bent his head and began to lick, tongue wide and flat as it swiped up and over the cleaned-to-perfection skin. A kiss then, right on that spread-wide, exposed pucker, like John was kissing Sherlock’s mouth, lips first, then tongue, curled and delving.

Sherlock whimpered and wriggled at the sensation, almost too much, _ah, god,_ no, actually too much, _too sensitive_ , too gloriously filthy and wicked and _Jesus fucking Christ almighty_ it was too hard to keep still for this, for John’s mouth buried between his cheeks and licking and kissing and _oh my Christ, **sucking** now_ …

With his feet braced against the wall, Sherlock tried to spread himself wider while at the same time he grasped John’s ankles and wriggled helplessly, against and then away from the hot, wet tongue, as though his body couldn’t decide on _more_ or _less_ or _oh god **more**_.

At this point, John did something that Sherlock absolutely did not expect, and that was to spread his own legs slightly, and then lift and wrap his lower legs around Sherlock’s torso, just under his arms, crossing his ankles over Sherlock’s back and pinning him. Sherlock’s T-shirt had fallen with gravity and was rucked up under John’s bare feet.

John stopped licking for a moment.

“This all right?”

“Fuck yes, _don’t stop_!”

Sherlock felt the grin on John’s mouth as it pressed onto his skin and into the fold and holy fuck, yes, the tongue, that tongue, that _oh my god_ , that was _glorious_ , now the flat of it, now curled and probing, and John’s fingers firm, holding his buttocks apart, his thumbs caressing the skin.

John’s mouth shifted down, licking at Sherlock’s scrotum now, up the perineum again, down once more, suckling one ball then the other gently, a kiss and a lick and back up and _oh god_ , against his hole, pressing his mouth down hard and tongue-fucking him with a will, and Sherlock couldn’t move against or away, he could only submit to the mouth on him, on that sensitive, secret, so hot skin.

Sherlock tried to spread his legs even wider and found that he could move a little, just a little, where his cock, now hard as a brick, was poking into John’s chest, leaking pre-cum onto John’s sternum, into that fine golden hair. So that’s what he did, he pushed down, trying to find friction for his cock, his balls now tightening next to the heat of John’s throat, the bob of his Adam’s apple a fine sporadic touch, more against the hair of his scrotum than the skin, and that made it better/worse, _oh god_.

John’s hands on his arse were both holding wide and bearing down now, while his feet were braced across Sherlock’s back, and John was arching his chest up too, because he could feel Sherlock’s cock against him there. And still he licked and sucked and kissed and… _Jesus fucking Christ nibbled_ , he fucking **_nibbled_** and now licked and sucked again, and Sherlock pushed and pushed and pushed his hips, the head of his cock gliding firm and slick against John’s chest.

“John,” he gasped, his voice almost an indecipherable groan, “I’m… I’m… I’m going to…”

And John pushed his face into Sherlock’s arse and fucked him with his tongue, wriggling it, then stopping to suck and lick, then tongue-fuck again, and arch his chest up against Sherlock’s cock, and push Sherlock’s hips down, and hold him tighter in his folded legs, so that Sherlock’s cock couldn’t help but push and slide against John’s skin and….

Sherlock yelled as he came, pulsing come between them, making them both slicker so that he slid more easily still, and he came again, and a third time, with John’s tongue still in his arse. Then he twitched, and sagged, and twitched again as John gave his anus a final kiss and let his head drop onto the back of the sofa.

Sherlock braced his folded arms against the Union Jack cushion as best he could and gasped for air. John unhooked his legs from Sherlock’s torso, but Sherlock couldn’t move. He just lay there angled along John’s body, deliciously spent, and heaved in oxygen. He could feel John’s erection through John’s jeans, against his belly

“Can you use your arms?” John asked.

“Maybe.”

John patted Sherlock’s bare arse and then Sherlock felt John move a little, shifting his torso, moving his legs to fit under Sherlock’s chest, then lifting his legs which meant he was lifting Sherlock too. Once more, Sherlock understood the implied instruction, and though his arms were a bit like noodles, he was able to move so that as John stretched out on the sofa, head at one end, legs up on the other, Sherlock moved too, and was sprawled over the top of him, properly horizontal now, almost in the perfect 69 position..

John rubbed his hands against Sherlock’s bare bottom, brought them down together so that his thumbs brushed over Sherlock’s balls again. His index fingers slid together down the cleft and against Sherlock’s spit-damp hole. Pressed slightly against it.

“If you want,” he said, “While you suck me.”

Sherlock’s arms had stopped shaking, and he pushed himself up to unzip John’s jeans and free his erection from its uncomfortable confines. He suckled at the thick head of John’s cock, licked at the slit, and wriggled his arse, spreading his knees on either side of John’s head. “Christ, yes.”

Then he set about licking and sucking and fondling John’s cock and balls while John set about slipping first one, then two fingers into Sherlock’s arse.

It was hard to concentrate on the head job while John stroked and stroked and stroked his prostate, but Sherlock was a genius and loved nothing better than a challenge, so he managed to push back against John’s fingers in a counter-rhythm to the one he set up with his mouth around John’s thickness. Sherlock’s tongue swirled around and under John’s foreskin, against the leaking slit, then along the shaft as Sherlock swallowed him down and sucked hard. With one hand, he cupped and rolled John’s balls; with the other, he gripped the thick shaft of John’s cock and stroked.

A little scrape of teeth on John’s shaft – just a very little, enough for a buzz – and then Sherlock would suck-swipe-lick (and John’s fingers in his arse, dear Christ, staggering their own rhythm, probably not on purpose, probably faltering with the distraction of having his cock sucked so enthusiastically, but John had his own genius for concentration through distraction, so maybe on purpose after all…)

And then John’s fingers were buried in his arse as John arched and came hard in Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock suckled him through it until John was practically thrashing underneath him, and Sherlock pushed back against John’s fingers, so John started moving them again, and used his other hand to grasp Sherlock’s cock, which was hard again, and moments later Sherlock was coming all over John’s chest a second time.

Sherlock shuddered to stillness while John kissed his thighs and arse again, then patted his bum in affectionate exhaustion.

“Fucking hell, baby, that was fantastic.”

“Hmm,” agreed Sherlock, face nuzzled into John’s crotch. He kissed the side of John’s softening cock. John yelped then giggled and patted and kissed Sherlock’s arse again.

With a massive effort, Sherlock slid off John until his knees hit the cushion on the floor. Then he crawled back up onto the sofa to lie alongside John, his arm slung across John’s sticky chest, face pressed into John’s throat.

John reached down to the floor, groped about until he found Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms, then used them to wipe his chest and their crotches up as best he could.

“Was okay, the way I held you down?” John asked, still panting a little for breath.

“I’d have said if it wasn’t.”

“I know. Still.”

“I liked it.”

“Me too,” said John, breathing more steadily now.

“There are days when you are somewhat feral,” Sherlock said, but he was grinning and he nipped John’s jaw and kissed it to show he approved of John having feral days.

“You love it when I’m uncivilised,” said John, turning his head to kiss Sherlock’s forehead.

Since Sherlock spent a lot of time finding ways in which to allow John to be uncivilised, he couldn’t disagree. Instead, he kissed John’s throat and clavicle.

The sound of the football match on the television crept back into their consciousness. It made Sherlock grin. “Who won the match?” he asked cheekily.

“We both did, I think,” laughed John. He had one arm draped down Sherlock’s back, his hand resting just at the rise of his arse, and he squeezed the top of Sherlock’s bum with his fingers. “I love it when you take long showers,” he said.

Sherlock rubbed the palm of one hand over John’s belly and up into the drying stickiness that matted his chest hair and coated one of his nipples. “You need one, now.”

“Soon as I can move,” John promised, “Which might not be until Thursday.”

Sherlock licked experimentally at John’s sticky nipple. Licked again. “Better when it’s still warm,” he declared.

“Daft beggar,” laughed John.

“Hmm,” agreed Sherlock.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Docspocklock on Tumblr drew a fab picture of this position and I haven't been able to relocate it. But a pic on this page is very close: [the second one down](http://docspocklock.tumblr.com/tagged/art/page/35) only Sherlock is higher up on John's chest and John 's got his legs wrapped around Sherlock's back. If I can find the other, I'll post a link


End file.
